Life is what you make of it
by EarlOfSandwich
Summary: The news of the suicide hit Irene harder than she could have ever expected. However, is the game on? Or is it all just a great game?
1. Decisions, decisions

**Sometimes it's the smallest decisions that can change your life forever.**

* * *

"Leave," she demanded of those who served her. She shouted the same command until she found herself sitting alone for hours, reading the same words over and over until they warped into some sort of sensation that started at the base of her throat. Irene dragged a hand down her face, tears and sadness drenching her hand as she tried to feel some sort of sensation other than sorrow.

For months, Irene followed the story of Jim Moriarty, criminal mastermind, on trial against the consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. Since the beginning, since the break-in of the century, Irene knew the ending would be deadly. She knew Moriarty would settle for nothing less.

When the news of Sherlock's death hit international news, Irene knew that, deep down inside, she wasn't surprised. Moriarty was a deadly force to be reckoned with. She wished Sherlock knew better than to stir the pot known as Moriarty's criminal network. But - alas - he didn't. Apparent by both their suicides, neither knew when to step back. Knowing the facts did not help Irene as it used to. The tears began and didn't end, not even all the willpower she could muster would spare her. Irene read the paper, "suicide by jumping, six story fall."

The thought of it all, knowing the suicide and knowing the text she received a few hours prior to the official time of death did nothing to stop the pain radiating from her chest. _See you soon - SH._ Of course he wouldn't write anything sentimental. Of course he would not prepare her for a heartache unfamiliar to the woman. Of course.

He was gone.

Irene cried. _The woman_ cried. She noticed the irony for only a few moments before the feeling resembling despair returned and shaked her reality. Irene played with the idea of taking a bath, soaking herself in scalding hot water until she felt a different sensation, until she felt like painting her face and continuing with her life. The thought of continuing her life without the possibility of Sherlock being alive deterred her from any plans she could make. Shaking this feeling - this feeling of sadness - was harder than Irene could have expected.

Irene heard a knock at the door, no doubt her assistant wondering what the plan was for the day. Clients were waiting - plans waiting for Irene to present her finely detailed persona. Irene decided those plans would have to wait as she shouted, almost choked, at the door, "go away!"

The noise at the other side ceased and Irene continued to drown herself in the uncontrollable sensation that washed itself upon her. Her conscious shouted at her how weak she was, how a dominatrix should be stronger than the sobbing woman spilled across her bed. The only remaining thought was about the fact that Sherlock was gone.

He was gone.

Her bedroom door opened and Irene purposely ignored it. Having anyone in her entourage see her like this would prove to be a problem. Over the years, Irene learned that showing any vulnerability to those around her could pose to be an issue.

So why did she let Sherlock in? She could have continued to live her life without him, without the man who challenged her idea of sex and sexuality all at once. Irene once based her ideas of sexuality upon the notion of pleasure - her ability to climax during sex. After meeting Sherlock and falling for his ability to read her personality while she presented her bare body, Irene was unable to separate her notions of pleasure from the natural intelligence Sherlock presented.

Of Course, Moriarty originally made her feel the same way. He held conversations with the woman familiar with sex that made her feel like a flower. The way he talked to her during their initial encounters made her feel like a teenager. He put his hands around her neck shortly after an it challenged her concept of sexuality again. He screamed in her face methods of murdering her when frustrated. He had her former assistant killed when she got in the way.

When she met Sherlock, she felt that similar feeling, those same jitters. However, there were no hands around her neck, no threats, no violence. She felt safe, for once. Irene felt she could possibly live a life without collecting compromising pictures or videos. She felt as if she could possibly deserve it.

And he was gone.

There was no knock at the door this time and her visitor entered. Irene purposely turned away and cleaned her face with the back of her hand. Deep down, Irene knew she needed to get it together. She needed to move on. Life needed to continue.

Her visitor sat on the bed behind her, the weight shifting the mattress significantly. More than her assistant would or anyone on her female entourage. Irene quickly turned around, the muscles in her back not prepared for the sudden movements of Irene standing up and backing away.

* * *

**For "**I told you I was changeable,**" please select Chapter 2. **

**For "**I told you I would see you soon,**" please select Chapter 3. **


	2. I told you I was changeable

**Long live the king.**

* * *

"I told you I was changeable," he said with his smile. Irene once loved hearing him talk through his smile. Now it sent shivers down her spine.

"You recovered from that bullet to the brain awfully quick." Irene walked away to her makeup and began to analyze the remnants of despair on her face. She had the right makeup to cover it up.

"I had a good team to help me pull through," he said, walking behind her and putting his hands on her shoulders. "Crying over me?"

"Get over yourself, Jim," she said as she wiped her face with a damp cloth. She flashed him a smile through her reflection. She could see his stoic stare back at her and her mind went through the ways to change it. Irene learned through experience that letting him stay in that mood for too long could be dangerous. "Why didn't you let me know before you did it? You could have given me a word of warning."

"Funny thing," he said, removing one of his hands to touch his three-day peach fuzz. "You were in hiding."

With a deliberate effort, Irene managed to not visibly roll her eyes. "Funny thing," she repeated as she applied a simple amount makeup. "I am in hiding and here you are."

"Were you hiding from me?" he asked, a small smile now on his lips.

Irene turned around, Jim's lingering hand feeling towards her collarbone as he stood there. "I managed to upset a lot of people if you recall," she said as she stood up, noting the lingering movements of Jim. "I knew you would find me," she said in a whisper. "And here we are." A shiver passed over her skin at his continued caresses. There was a different feeling in his skin than before as it passed under her robe. With deliberate motions, Irene reached for his hand and asked, "you look starved, lets eat before dinner."

Jim grabbed her wrist with a force that would have startled her if she was not used to this sort of behavior. He put his lips on the back of her hand, his grip still tight. "You treat me too well, Adler," he breathed into her skin. "I am starving," he said, letting go of her hand and turning to walk away.

Irene forced herself to breath as she watched Jim walk away. Taking a few deep breaths to compose herself, Irene followed.

* * *

You've made your choice.


	3. I told you I would see you soon

**And this is you losing. **

* * *

"I told you I would see you soon."

Irene thought of ways to express her frustration at Sherlock, mostly through cussing and throwing items at him. "You told me?" She repeated after him, hiding behind a hint of insult and betrayal. Sherlock was smiling at her anger until it turned contagious. Irene smiled back at him, mentally questioning the reality of Sherlock Holmes still being alive.

Walking back to the bed, Irene sat down on her knees and felt for his pulse on the freely given wrist. Still feeling his pulse, she placed a kiss on his jaw and felt the elevation, the aliveness of Sherlock's blood flowing through his veins. He was real, he was there. "Tell me you're sorry," she said lowly, placing her forehead on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Mean it," Irene demanded.

"Irene," he said in a protest. She lifted her head from his shoulder and glared at him, the smile most certainly gone. It was replaced by the anger of hurt that was building inside her. "I am sorry," he told her.

"Dinner?" she asked, her smile forming as she spoke.

Sherlock's brows furrowed, "I am not hungry, sorry."

"Neither am I," she said, her eyebrow raising. Sherlock stood up. He cast a look at her that informed her that he was not interested in this moment. "Shame," she said as she rose and walked to her closet, pulling it open to reveal options of attire. "Do what you need to do and leave," she informed him as she looked for something to change into. Dropping her robe, Irene entered her closet.

"Thank you," he said simply, turning around and leaving the room.

* * *

You've made your decision.


End file.
